Sonnet

By Leigh Hardie

Seventeen-year-old prodigy Lieutenant Sonnet Tagen is, quite possibly, the most skilled and powerful sorcerer of her generation. She’s also irreverent, condescending, and thoroughly insubordinate—which is why her Skyguard superiors have no qualms about lending her out on indefinite assignment to Queen Yuma of the Everstar Isles. However, what was pitched as a simple teaching position soon escalates into a pursuit mission of utmost urgency: one for which Sonnet—through unlucky combination of her talent, troubled background, and sheer force of contentious personality—may be uniquely qualified.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leigh Hardie
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370730025

Leigh Hardie

Leigh Hardie is a human with a (presently) functioning metabolism. She is prone to arranging perfectly good words into utter nonsense. She likes ice cream.

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Sonnet

By Leigh Hardie

Copyright the author 2018

Distributed by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

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Table of Contents

Sonnet of the Skyguard

I: Bathrobes and Bad Wine

II: Night Visions

III: The War Room

IV: Extrasomnia

V: The Door in the Dungeons

VI: Arrivals

VII: Unwanted Company

VIII: Son of the Silverhand

IX: Runeset

X: To Right Wrongs

XI: Inconvenient Timing

XII: Songbird Flies Home

XIII: The Dathyngar Conflict

XIV: Moradette

XV: The Seer

XVI: In the Sorcerer’s Wake

XVII: The Imperial City

XVIII: An Unheard-Of Feat

XIX: The Girl Whose Name Is Destruction

XX: The Omnimage

Post-Book Material

Wait, You Read the Whole Thing?

About the Author

Extras, Plus Obligatory Social Links

Acknowledgments

.:I:.

Bathrobes and Bad Wine

Indoor, private bathing was a luxury long forgotten.

At Kalibclydh¹, ‘bath’ had been little more than a glorifying term for a quick dive into the nearby spring with a sprig of soap root in hand, solitude a rare treat and comfort at the mercy of the magisphere² in less-than-perfect weather. Essence was rich in the mountains near Fendarvan, but it was the essence of the swamp—earthy, watery, a dense cloud of mud energy in which the coveted fire was a trace commodity.

Sonnet’s strengths didn’t lie in fire anyway. She could heat a bath if need be—it was hardly a daunting task—but it was just as well to have a bath drawn for her the non-essential way, a tubful of well-water heated in urns over the coals. She’d been in the capital for all of two days and had hated every minute of it, but she could not deny the hospitality of the palace staff.

Or perhaps it was the transparent appeasement of the queen who owed her.

Whatever the case, however, it was nice to sit and soak without risk of some idiot grunt announcing himself by leaping naked from a boulder, the smells of scented soap powders and damp teak wafting about in place of the waste of mountain wildlife. Sonnet lifted her foot and watched the bathwater run down her leg, leaving a trail of bubbles in its wake. They were so thick and soapy that the scars were almost unnoticeable.

Not quite, though—which was why she hid her leg underwater when she heard the knock on the door. Yes?

Lieutenant Tagen? May I come in?

It was a girl’s voice, certain enough in her purpose but not lacking in the reservation tact dictated. Sonnet slumped along the wall of the tub, her chin scraping the surface of the water. Whoever it was, she didn’t care to talk, but there was always the odd chance that it was something important. I suppose I can’t stop you. Not that she was sure she believed herself; whoever it was, Sonnet had almost definitely stopped far greater threats before.

She was proven right when the door opened and in stepped the thirteen-year-old princess. She supposed they’d technically met at the banquet the night before, but they hadn’t had much of a chance to speak before supper, and Sonnet had retired shortly after. She had a private room with a wall of bookshelves and a well-stocked liquor cabinet; if it was that or feigning interest in the petty affairs of the frivolous nobility, it was hardly a difficult choice.

Your Highness.

The princess smiled. She was a small, slightly plump girl with features like a chipmunk, but that was fine. There was little duller than having to look at beautiful people. Are you comfortable, Lieutenant?

Quite, thank you—although given how much we’ll be seeing of one another, you might as well call me Sonnet.

If you call me Kahia, Lieutenant.

Kahia it is, then. Sonnet reached for the goblet on the tubside table and took a sip—and gagged. "I thought I asked for wine."

"Oh. The princess’s round cheeks were red as the sickly-sweet liquid. Sonnet supposed she ought to be annoyed, but if anything, it was a relief to see that the royals were not above embarrassment. I’m sorry if they sent the wrong drink. I’d taste it, but I’m only allowed on special occasions."

And then only if your mother leaves a drop to spare, no doubt. If you’d like a sip, you’re more than welcome. I shan’t tell.

Oh, no—I mean, thank you, but I couldn’t. She tugged at a lock of mousy-brown hair, her flush even more obvious as she flipped it to the side. But wrong drinks aside, how have the staff been treating you?

Well enough so far, though they do have ample time to piss me off. Kahia’s calf-like eyes bulged. Was it not proper to use such language around a princess? Probably not. But if said princess was to be one’s pupil, then no doubt she would have to put up with her teacher’s choice of words just like any other student. But I can’t imagine that’s what you’re here to discuss.

She shook her head, bowing it slightly with each back and forth. "My apologies—dez’Aimbyn³ Myrr says it’s best to open with friendly conversation if one must intrude."

You’ll learn soon enough that sorcerers and dus’Aimbyn have little in common. If you must intrude, I’d prefer it if you were brief and to-the-point.

Yes, Lieuten—Sonnet.

The princess’s gapped teeth flashed in apology, but she made no attempt to remedy her error. Sonnet fished the cloth from the depths of the bathwater and ran it along the back of her neck. And…?

Kahia blinked. For all her mind wasn’t up to speed, at least her lashes kept pace. Sorry?

"Your purpose, Kahia."

Oh! Yes, right. Flustered, she scampered back to the still-open door and shut it, spinning about as the latch clicked back into place. Sonnet sucked in her bottom lip as she wrung out the washcloth and watched the drips slip through the bubbles. It was hardly reassuring if the most optimistic thought her student had inspired was that she couldn’t possibly be less apt at sorcery than she was at discourse. My mother would like a word.

And she couldn’t come herself? Of course not—that would have wasted no one’s time. Sonnet slung the cloth over the rim of the tub and pushed herself to her feet, mindful of her bad leg as she heaved it over the side. Never mind. Any word as to what it might be about?

My lessons, I would think.

But you don’t know.

Kahia shook her head. Not sure why she’d bothered clarifying, Sonnet dried herself with a fire-laced breeze, a touch of green seeping from the sky outside the window. Very well; it’s not as if I have anything better to do. I take it I can at least find a decent cup of wine in her rooms?

The princess nodded. Mother has an especial taste for wine.

I’ll say. But she didn’t; Kahia was anxious enough without mention of the queen’s vices, and Sonnet had not been brought to Bræxwe as some mere confidante. It was more productive to clip her hair back into a half-ponytail and skim the contents of the double-sided wardrobe in the wall between the bathroom and the bedchamber. So she might have thought, anyway. And my clothes are—?

Oh! The laundresses have them. Kahia’s voice wavered with the hesitation of a child confessing to some perceived juvenile crime. It was almost enough to make Sonnet miss the Skyguard⁴ officers and the conviction with which they spoke out of their asses. Sorry—my mother tends to forget to inform our guests when it’s laundry day. But they should have left you some…

The girl trailed off as Sonnet surveyed the loaned garments—two gowns, a yellow and a pink, and a short teal robe—her teeth digging into the flesh of her tongue. She hated yellow. It was so bright and sunny and showy. She didn’t hate pink, but she couldn’t wear it; her hair was brown enough to be considered auburn, but that didn’t make it any less garish against a rosy silk. That left her with the robe. She’d have to improvise. Hand me one of those towels. The black one will do.

But you already dried yourself with mag—

"Please."

It was all it took for Kahia to obey. Perhaps Sonnet had underestimated the usefulness of that word. Thank you.

The princess nodded, grimacing. Sonnet made a point to ignore her as she slipped on the robe and wrapped the towel around herself overtop. A glance in the floor-length mirror later and she was hardly satisfied with the effect. It ought to be belted, wouldn’t you say?

Kahia said nothing. Sonnet had preferred her nervous babbling. Of course it should. How long is the tie-back on that curtain?

Uh…

Should be long enough. She strode to the window and pried the tie-back from the wall, the liberated curtain falling partway shut. The cord wrapped twice around her waist before she knotted it, tassels dangling at the front. How do I look? And bear in mind that there’s little I hate more than a bold-faced liar.

You look… The princess pursed her lips in pursuit of a fitting word. "…resourceful."

Resourceful. Sonnet snickered. Good choice. You might be cleverer than you look.

She spared herself the girl’s no-doubt scandalized look by busying herself with her boots. The stockings she’d fished out of the toes sat half an inch higher than the laced-up Skyguard footwear, a rim of violet silk above the black leather. The contrast was refreshing after all those years of stormcloud slacks. Am I missing anything?

Just, um… Kahia blushed. …undergarments.

Oh. Sonnet scanned the room for something that might suffice, but her search ended in a shrug. If it wouldn’t show through the robe, then it was liable to fall off. Well, I can’t imagine the odds of her noticing are all that high. Or are they?

"Oh, no. She’s a bit… selective about what she notices."

Or when she notices—namely, never past noon. Very well. Where am I to meet her?

Her chambers. I can show you—

Thank you, but no. I had one of her ladies in waiting show me around shortly after I arrived. Not that the girl had been enthused about being dragged away from her giggling, gossiping friends, but even the most half-hearted of tours was preferable to continued ignorance. I make a point to know my way around.

Yes, of course. The princess ducked back to the door and turned the bolt. Sonnet’s ears cringed upon the click!; the sound of a door unlocking was so much less pleasant when triggered by someone else. Is there anything else I can—?

No. Back at Kalibclydh, her word would have been final. But weak-minded and submissive as Kahia might have been, she continued to stare out of those wide brown eyes. Either her over-structured upbringing had left her no concept of closure, or she was too innately royal to accept what was good enough for anyone else. Or both.

But if she was to meet with the queen, Sonnet didn’t have time to waste on correcting such behaviors. So long as she was here, there would be countless opportunities for lectures. "No—Your Highness."

Sonnet found the queen’s chambers with little difficulty. She’d kept the girl’s directions in mind, but they hadn’t been necessary. The scent of grape had been guide enough.

The locks of the double doors yielded to well-placed gusts through the keyholes, green remnants of the magic drifting window-ward as Sonnet pushed through. She might have entered with a gale that would have robbed the doors of their hinges, but that was an amateur’s trick, a brutish gamble at showing off by some lackwit who aspired to little more than the approval of supposed betters. Subtle precision involved actual skill and none of that petty spectacle—the way of a true sorcerer.

She shut the doors manually, letting a swirling breeze wind the bolt back into place as she collapsed upon the nearest sofa. A chandelier rocked above her head with a minimal force, tiny red bits of essence sparking from the flames and following Sonnet’s own green leftovers through the open drapes.

I won’t claim much knowledge of household protocol in Skyguard bases, but here at Everstar Palace, boots and furniture are not encouraged to mingle.

The queen lingered in the archway between her reception and her study, goblet in hand. If not for the bags beneath her eyes and the corset around her waist and the lone streak of gray in her hair, she was a dead ringer for an older Kahia. Sonnet wouldn’t have guessed she’d be less impressed with Yuma Dacibrae Kardolta one-on-one than she’d been at the banquet, but it seemed her malcontent was not immune to underestimation after all. My apologies. I would have worn slippers, but I fail to see the value in footwear that lacks sufficient leg coverage.

Not sure why you’d be concerned about your legs, judging by the coverage on the rest of you. Yuma took a sip from her cup. For shits and giggles, Sonnet resolved to keep count. I sent you two dresses, you know.

Yes, one of which I can’t wear without burning eyes, and another of which would scarcely need my help to do the same. Another drink. Two. But I must commend the selection of this robe. Not only is the color fit for sapient observation, but it’s almost sinfully comfortable.

The queen’s eyes narrowed to slits. For all Kahia had her mother’s face, her expressions must have come from the paternal side. That robe was meant for the solitude of your own quarters.

A piece in one of my best colors? No, this ought to be seen. In the solitude of my own quarters, I plan to indulge myself with that pink dress.

Three. Well, once the laundresses are done with your clothes, you can wear whatever colors you like. Just wear your daywear during the day and your nightwear during the night.

That might be problematic, my being a late sleeper and all. But I suppose I don’t care enough to protest beyond that.

Four. Five. Would you care for a drink?

The way she was downing her own glass, she couldn’t have offered for any reason but making her own indulgence less conspicuous. That said, there was little sense in passing up what had to have been a fine glass of wine—certainly not after that swill Sonnet had been served with her bath. I would not be averse to one.

Six. The queen dragged herself over to the table by the window and poured another goblet, not bothering to set down her own as she did. So. Making lieutenant at your age is quite the feat.

Hardly. I made lieutenant a year ago, when perhaps it was. And given when she’d started with the Skyguard and how quickly she’d risen, simple math showed her lack of captaincy as the true anomaly. I trust you have my records?

Those, plus a letter from General Listra. Apparently, you’re the most gifted magical prodigy she’s ever known. Both cups in hand, Yuma settled herself into a nearby chair and offered one. Sonnet reached for it, but the queen was quick to retract. She also said that you’re arrogant, condescending, and a complete inversion of basic human decency.

Sonnet shrugged. That Listra bitch had never liked her. We all have our flaws. You should count yourself fortunate that mine aren’t debilitating.

Indeed. Seven. The queen handed over the other cup and made a pursed, almost ballooning sort of face. Sonnet guessed she was swallowing back a belch. But I suppose I ought to be grateful for your repulsive personality; I doubt the Skyguard would have been willing to spare you otherwise.

And you’re in less of a position to be picky than a renegade militia?

Eight. Or perhaps that one didn’t count; it may have been merited. The Skyguard is not—

I figured. Sonnet swirled her goblet, the scent of the burgundy liquid launching an upward assault on her nostrils. It took a slight breeze to redirect the aroma. "Your message was sent directly to Kalibclydh, so you know where to find the Skyguard. You’ve been in contact with General Listra, which suggests a prior connection—professional in nature, given that the two of you have nothing in common. And given that there have been no notable instances of magical warfare since prior to the Resurgence⁵, it seems highly unlikely that the royal family would be in contact with any essential forces not under their direct command."

The queen’s already-drooping eyelids further lowered until only a sliver of brown could be seen. Nine. "Clever. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go about telling that to anyone in earshot, if you don’t mind; you know as well as I do just what the church⁶ thinks of the Skyguard."

And frankly, I couldn’t give a damn either way—but I suppose that so long as I’m on your payroll, I might as well humor you. The scent safely blown aside, Sonnet ventured a sip of her wine—and wasted no time in regretting it as the pungent taste stung her palate, the liquid almost syrupy as it crept down her throat with none of the required haste. The vintage from her bath seemed bearable in retrospect. "Nauseating."

It’s from my family’s own vineyards.

I’m not surprised. She abandoned the goblet on a nearby end table and summoned a small jet of water for a rinse. It was hardly sufficient, but it was the best that basic, unfixed magic could do. Granvēr wine is piss.

Ten. I’ll have you know that I hold it in the highest fondness.

You don’t say. I suppose I lack the refined taste that comes with a noble palate. But here we are, talking about wine when we ought to be discussing your daughter. Sonnet sat back down on the couch, elbow to the arm and resting her face against her palm. I’m surprised that a princess of a Routhian kingdom would have enough of the required blood in her to benefit from any sort of magical instruction. Where is it coming from? Your side, or her father’s?

Mine. The admission called for a particularly long drink. Eleven. "My mother had some Alland⁷ blood in her—her father’s father’s mother, I think it was—but I would have thought it would be inconsequential by this point. Myself, I can only light candles, and they take me a minute apiece."

That explained